


folie à deux

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 20something Prompto / 30something Noctis, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, CEO Noctis Lucis Caelum, Dancer Prompto Argentum, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-09 20:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: This is their idea of stress relief, in the middle of all their trials and their long nights.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a different dancer AU -- notably because only one of the guys is a dancer (as opposed to the one I did in which they both were).
> 
> And I did this for friends like jean-the-bean, junjougrey, and moonside.

After the third, or is it the fourth or the fifth or the -- oh hell, he’s lost all track of time, and the words on the digital page have all run comprehensively or incomprehensively over and he’s looking at nothing but dark e-ink smudges all over the screen of the tablet and -- how satisfying would it be to throw the black device against the wall? How satisfying would it be to hear the whine and the crack and the broken protest of it, if he lobbed it across the room and straight on into the corner where the little basketball goal’s been reinstalled above the wastebasket?

He really needs to find Nyx and kick his ass because the basketball joke got old three minutes in, and those first three minutes in this corner office were -- what -- a lifetime ago -- four or five years ago.

So he can’t throw the tablet. Waste of a perfectly good device, and after all, it’s completely blameless in this long slow slog of a messy night, and besides: re-downloading his apps and his shit onto a new device is still going to take time he doesn’t currently have.

Not for the first time, Noctis wishes he could still receive dead-tree versions of the reports that cross his desk like a schedule of torment, like fresh hell every few hours, if only so he could have the paltry satisfaction of tearing the printouts into pieces.

And he slots the tablet into its charging dock with uncoordinated grace, and probably a few new scratches into the bezel, and he crosses the entire length of the corner office and takes the bottle of wine he’s crammed into the back of the little refrigerator and -- there’s no one here to see him gulp frantically at it. White wine, nothing to write home about, nothing much to recommend it except that it’s wine, and it had been emergency supplies to him, and he does remember to pull out his smartphone and send off an instant message to Lunafreya. 

If he turns into an alcoholic, he thinks, as he swallows another crisp mouthful of scant fruity scent, he’ll know exactly who to blame: and that would be most of the people who have access to this corner office. Stuffy stiff-starched collars and disapproving looks. Condescending, the whole lot of the board, and he’d still rather fire them all, except that he doesn’t have enough people to name to their seats as replacements.

(Because Ignis will not budge from his quiet and mostly anonymous existence, tending to his little book shop. Because Gladio will not budge from Ignis’s side. He’s tried to beg them and bribe them and outright shout at them. Nothing doing with those two.)

(Secretly, he’s happy for them. Secretly, he’d be desperately unhappy if he had to see them trapped in these offices with him. In this soulless skyscraper with his family name emblazoned across the top floor in stupid white neon lights. But still. He trusts them and a handful of other people, and practically no one else.)

The wine does nothing to calm him down; it just fizzes irritably in the back of his throat, bracing cold sneaking like sharp slivers into his joints, into the pit of his stomach, and maybe it’s time to call it a day and a night and way too many hours of overtime -- not that CEOs get to clock up the overtime -- and he reaches for the phone on his desk, and he’s mostly polite, but very distant, when he calls down to the garage to have his car brought around --

And his smartphone chooses that moment to ring.

It’s an awkward juggling act -- phone receiver in one hand, wine bottle in the other, and the thump and lilt of a specific melody rising from his pocket -- Noctis hastily sets the bottle aside and fumbles for the unlock, for the Answer cue: “Hi.”

Nothing smooth about it, just a worn-down rasp in his voice, that he’s grown too depressingly used to hearing. Meetings, conference calls, last-minute harangues, he’s responded to them all with the same halfway-to-exhausted, road-trip-to-hell monotone. 

“Hello,” and the single word that he hears sounds just as bogged-down. Sounds just as weary and war-torn.

Which does and doesn’t make sense, given what he knows about the person who’s calling him.

Noctis listens, carefully, zeroing in.

Soft long whistling breaths, too controlled, too deliberate. Inhale, three, four, five, six; exhale; ten, eleven, twelve. Again, and again, and again, so he falls into that rhythm too and it’s still a minor miracle that the headache eating at his temples fades, a little.

The other set of sounds that he can hear is: the faraway thump of heels and toes. Brush-beat, worn satin and rubber against polished planking, repeated and faint like a pulse. Step, step, step.

Quick intake of breath, deeper, sharper, pulling, and Noctis thinks he might not be imagining the sudden whisper of -- flight. A body on the move, describing a deliberate airborne arc. Swing of an arm in a single stroke, showing off the strong line from the extended pointer finger to the bunching muscles in the shoulder. Flexion and tension of an outstretched leg bound in garters and ribbons and two layers of knitted warmers. 

And a sigh, on the end of all this, such a deep and bone-grating sound against the seeming lightness of those movements that he’s heard, that he’s been picturing clearly in his mind’s eye.

“Noctis.” The voice of the one who’s been moving. Just a little out of breath. Just a little high-pitched. 

Noctis thinks of tufts of sweat-soaked blond hair. Freckles dashed like faded ink-strokes onto pale skin, freckles that traced out the muscles beneath that skin, freckles that seemed to ripple over limbs and chest and feet and cheeks in graceful motion. Thinks of blue-violet eyes haloed in merciless bright light, points of intense color in a stark space of mirrors and barres and high ceilings.

Prompto, stilling, on the other end of the phone line.

“You sound about as tired as I feel,” Noctis says, quietly.

“And I feel like I want to -- fall over and just not move any more.” Words dragged out, colorless, which doesn’t sound right -- not to Noctis’s ears anyway. He’s heard that voice rise into high mocking laughter. He’s used to hearing it sound so vital and light, tenor and commanding at the same time, and -- the words he’s hearing are nowhere near those. Not in the same city or country or even continent.

And worry gnaws at the spaces beneath Noctis’s heart, so he breathes, and tries to outlast those insistent points. 

“I’m not -- trying to overdo it,” and there, there’s the bravado Noctis knows pretty well. Insolence, maybe a little too much daring, not really a problem of confidence or the lack of it as much as it is a problem of knowing where the limits were, and -- Prompto’s supposed to have world enough and time to learn, to find those limits at the absolute stretched extent of his limbs and of his strength, but sometimes he hurries and hurries and sometimes the result is -- an hour in a doctor’s office, and sometimes the result is an overnight stay in the ER.

“You’d better not.” Noctis takes another gulp of wine anyway, even though the last hospital visit is months in the past, even though he doesn’t know if he’s bracing for bad news or for something else entirely. “I won’t allow it.”

“I know,” soft and sweet and too rough. “I need help.”

He doesn’t say “Knew it,” just thinks it, and finishes off the bottle. Swings his suit jacket back on, tablet and keys and wallet and the stupid ID on its stupid black-and-gold-striped lanyard. “On my way.”

Weary laughter. “You’re already thinking I’ve overdone it.”

“I’m just trying to get to you faster,” he says, and then the call cuts off because he’s stepping into the high-speed elevator and he stabs a vicious fingertip at the button for the ground floor.

Out the front doors and it only takes a long step, a hunch and a creaking protest in the small of his back, bones and nerves and everything else grinding together, and he’s in the front seat of the car and he can resume the call, on speakerphone now so there’s static scratching all around, and in Prompto calling his name. “Noct?”

“Ten minutes,” he says, bearing down onto the accelerator, onto the steering wheel’s round shape gripped in his white-knuckled hands.

“Don’t you dare get yourself killed trying to get to me,” he hears Prompto all but growl. “I’m right where you think I am. Drive fucking smart.”

“I’m trying,” he says.

Silence as he grits his teeth at an inconvenient red light. 

“Is it that bad?”

He doesn’t answer that one properly. Just sighs, and says, “I’m here.”

And the streetlight throws its fitful white glare onto a long-legged shape. Keys scratching as they’re applied to a front door. Shoulders half-bent underneath a bulky knitted blanket and a battered blue duffel. 

Prompto is wearing oversized sneakers over his pointe shoes, is the first thing Noctis notices when he finally slides into the passenger seat. Bright brilliant orange canvas that seems to wash out the grays and creams of sweat-stained dancing clothes.

“That’s obnoxious,” is all he says, however, as he starts the car again.

“It pisses my dance teacher off, and that’s the only reason why I’m doing it,” is the quiet answer.

Noctis almost chuckles, but then he looks over and -- Prompto is curled into a miserable shape beside him, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped compactly above his ankles. How he’s managed it with the seat belt still buckled firmly into place is beyond Noctis, as usual; and he doesn’t even have the time to think about it because he catches a glimpse of Prompto’s eyebrows, knotted together, and -- 

He honestly doesn’t pay attention to the world around them, blurring out as he speeds for home.

He feels the weight of Prompto, lithe muscle and rough hands and gnarled arms, pressing against him where they lean on each other, once they’ve gotten through the door, once they’re within sight of the pile of mattresses and duvets and blankets that’s Prompto’s actual bed, in this midnight-shadowed studio on the fifteenth floor, in the flattening suburbs. 

His office is nowhere in sight. The studio where Prompto’s been practicing, likewise; and the theater where he’ll soon be performing in a suite of modern-dance pieces. Something about war, and the weary cycling nature of it, the terrible serpent eating its tail. 

Has he remembered to buy tickets, Noctis thinks. 

He’s turning his head to ask Prompto about the show when -- thump, and that sounds like a much better idea, and so he follows suit although he doesn’t faceplant into the pillows directly -- his back protests at the very idea -- and the moment he’s flat on his back with only his shoes off Prompto’s crawling into his arms, the warmth and the shiver of him like brands along Noctis’s nerves, and he clutches him close. The not-quite-fragility of him, the ripple of cloth along his back -- Noctis sighs, feeling him nuzzle along his throat, and he grounds himself with a hand on the back of Prompto’s head. 

“Noctis. I actually don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah,” he says, and he kisses the nearest bit of Prompto he can find, which is his forehead. “I think we’re tired.”

“I know I am.”

“Brat. Yes.”

“Not a brat.” 

“Okay,” he says, and he responds, slowly, when Prompto cranes up to kiss him.

The kiss goes nowhere fast, and Noctis just dredges up a tired chuckle, and says, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You’d better,” and sometimes it seems like all the world knows Prompto’s name, because he dances like an entire pantheon of ecstatic frenzied gods, because he’s talked about his struggles and his secrets and his pain for everyone to hear, but that means they all forget he’s -- not that old, and even Noctis feels that guilty twinge of forgetting in his gut, every now and then.

He sounds like a child, though, in those two words, and Noctis pulls the nearest creased blanket over him and falls asleep on the sigh of a quiet apology.

***

Rustle of ribbon and of knits next to him, when he reluctantly climbs hand over hand out of the depths of his fitful sleep, and he registers -- first -- the sprawl of naked freckles. Tension falling out on a long controlled exhale. The curve of Prompto presented to him, shadows stretched over skin in the small of his back -- again Noctis lets his instincts rule him and he leans over and opens his mouth against the nape of Prompto’s neck. Seals in a soft breath, one, two, warmth growing beneath his lips and then he runs the tip of his tongue along that warmth.

Hitch, hard, loud, in Prompto’s breathing.

So Noctis does it again, and at some point he scrapes his teeth delicately above the bump of bone, up into the hairline, and the soft stuttering moan is his reward.

As is Prompto rolling over in nothing but his skin and his freckles and the needy flush splotched dark red on his chest. His fist loosely closed around his cock. 

“Impatient,” Noctis chides, but his heart’s not in it and all the thoughts in his head are falling to pieces anyway, because the real reason he’s awake is because he’d heard or felt Prompto moaning, small needy sounds threaded into -- his name. 

That repeats even as he stares, tip of Prompto’s tongue darting out to wet his lip between the syllables of Noctis’s name. Eyes down so Noctis can’t actually tell if he’s wide-eyed or the exact opposite, hand moving deliberately slow, up and down, up and down.

He strips off, hurriedly, and then he calls Prompto’s name.

Smile, lopsided with need. “Noct.”

“Come here,” he says, hearing the trip of his own heart when he hears how they’ve both gone raspy-rough.

Prompto, approaching, and the kiss they share is lightning and wildfire. Prompto, shaking, here, and it’s like even more power thrumming through Noctis, dark and deep and sweet.

Still he knows how these things go and what they both need to do, and so he wrests back the barest minimum of his reason -- by the edges of nails -- and he catches Prompto by the back of his neck and says, as sternly as he can, “Hey. You can tap out at any time.”

Pause. Pause. Prompto’s otherwise occupied hand drops back down to the bed.

And he says, slow and clear, “I don’t want to tap out.”

He says, deliberate and sure, “Take me.”

And Noctis is only human -- he can only be reasonable for so long and gods, he’s still more than worn out and he’s still less than at his best, and this? This is escape and bliss and the best possible prison break -- so he gives in to the impulse to shake Prompto, and then pull him down into a crushing kiss. Moan, wordless longing torn apart, between them, that Noctis swallows and then he’s kissing Prompto again and again, refusing to be kissed back -- he’s only following Prompto’s request after all, the echoes of which are still searing down Noctis’s nerves.

Nip of his teeth every time Prompto tries to kiss him back, till he’s biting softly at those plush warm lips, till Prompto is pressing desperately closer and shaking, shaking so hard and Noctis kisses him again and at the same time gets his other hand between their chests pressed together and he catches Prompto’s nipple between two fingers, pinches, enough that Prompto yanks away in shock -- those gorgeous eyes flying open so Noctis can see. Hairline-rims of blue-violet around pupils blown out wide wide wide. Beads of sweat standing out against freckled skin, against golden-blond hair; mouth prettily bruised -- 

Speaking of his mouth: Noctis grins and tightens his grip on Prompto, applies just a little force.

Down.

And he thinks Prompto’s laughing, insolent as he always is, as he submits and then Noctis can feel warm breath puffing over his overheating skin. Again the movement of tongue, darting out to wet Prompto’s much-used mouth -- the same tongue that’s tracing firm lines up and down Noctis’s cock. The same mouth that’s closing around him.

“Fuck.”

He hears the sudden vibration of his own voice, ringing helplessly; he hears the breath tearing out of Prompto’s lungs on the upstroke. Those hands closing in a silent shaking rhythm on his hips, and Noctis grits his teeth against the tidal pulls of his need, his pleasure, his thoughts unraveling and dangerously close, and he’s pulling Prompto up and away.

Beautiful, disheveled, debauched -- he’s got no words for Prompto sprawling out next to him and laughing, the now-neglected hard length of him curved up against his stomach, and Noctis growls, and says, “Touch yourself, slow, and don’t come until I say so.”

Wide eyes, eager twitch of hands, and he’s soon feasting his eyes on the sight of Prompto drawn into nothing more than a tight taut line of nerves and need and the helpless little cries that seem caught in the back of his throat. 

He waits, and waits, until Prompto’s self-imposed silence shatters on a quiet agonized “Let me come, please, I need to -- ”

“Yeah,” he says, and he rolls a little, gets himself positioned over Prompto, and he wraps his hand around his own cock and Prompto’s together, strokes, hard and crushing and -- Prompto cries out once, sharply, half-articulated sound that dies on his mouth and Noctis muffles his own moan in Prompto’s shoulder, crashing into him as they ride out their shared high.

He feels arms snake around his waist and he smiles, exhausted and sated and sloppy and he mutters into the shift of warmth beneath him. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” he hears Prompto say, as if from very far away. “Yeah. Thanks Noct.”


	2. Chapter 2

He knows he’s been sleeping, because for some reason his feet are deadweight at the ends of his legs, ankles and heels propped up on a too-firm cushion and -- he pries his eyes open -- he squints at the jumbled pattern on the cushion’s cover and only his memory tells him he’s looking at blue-and-green paisley, because otherwise he’s sleeping -- or he was sleeping until just now -- in a room of shadows.

Up, to a sitting position, and this movement is easier and the details of the room are trickling in on him. Couch. He remembers that now. Couch, and he knows it’s as comfortable as his favorite pair of denims, as cozy as though the whole thing were made of memory foam, supporting him in whatever position he dozes off in.

Nothing but the best for Noctis: who’s going to ask questions about the couch in the CEO’s office, anyway?

Finally he manages to maneuver his feet down to the floor -- he winces at the thump, that he feels even through two layers of thick socks. At the cold that seems to arrow straight into his bones, that seems to saw at his nerves, and not for the first time he wonders why the hell Noctis prefers to work in freezing temperatures and -- 

Wait, Noctis.

This is Noctis’s office and -- strain his ears as he might, Prompto can’t hear him in these connected spaces at all. Not a word of him, not a sound. Door, and this sitting area where Prompto had dropped off for a nap. Small kitchen and even smaller bathroom with its little shower, and a conference room that seats six on a good day, and then the big room that’s the actual office, where Noctis spends his days behind his big desk, where the world spins and spins in neon-drunken lurch, light pollution reducing the night sky to grayish-brown mud even when the skies are clear, as they’re supposed to be tonight.

Not even a breath or the slow even tempo of sleep.

Gingerly, Prompto places a little weight on his ankles -- he can feel the bones just fine, and he can even wiggle his toes, but he’s been a little harder and heavier on his feet these past few days and he can still hear his regular doctor as she mutters at him to take it easy, and she sends him text messages every night or so, and -- his phone chooses that moment to chime at him and sure enough, it’s her, and she’s telling him to try soaking his feet in warm water to relax the muscles and the tendons, the joints of his toes.

He’ll do that but maybe not tonight: he’s got other things to think of.

Cold, cold, he’s surprised he doesn’t see his own breath condensing into some kind of mist as he hobbles toward Noctis’s desk and -- empty, empty, these spaces that are still too large for him, and not even the sound of his own voice as he tries to hum out a tune from -- Swan Lake, really? Still only that? 

Here is Noctis’s chair, and there are shaped foam pillows strapped into it, and Prompto sits and tries to squirm into some kind of comfortable position. The foam pushes his spine into an odd alignment, not quite the lax upright posture he needs to be able to breathe properly, and he gives up after a stupidly short time.

Leans forward onto the desk instead, arms crossed on smooth glass and the leather blotter, and he places his forehead on his arms and tries to -- focus.

Sitting, not entirely relaxed, but he turns his feet out anyway, rotates the ankles and keeps his toes slightly pointed. Beats out the time for one of his warm-up exercise sequences against the plush give of the carpet, so there’s no sound to hear, and he only knows the movement of the muscles, anchored into his knees and downwards and on -- 

Bang goes the door into the office, clack and hiss go the lights as they’re all turned on, and -- Noctis’s voice.

But Noctis seems to be shouting -- the walls aren’t quite thick enough to get between swearing and Prompto’s ears, and he’s halfway up onto his feet when Noctis bursts into the room, clenched fist almost missing the switches for the overhead lights -- 

“I don’t know,” Noctis is shouting. “I don’t know and right now I can’t make myself care. Vote on it yourselves, or don’t, because you know what I’ll do the moment I see the resolution on my desk. In my email. Leave me alone and leave those subsidies alone and don’t make me regret being nice to you tonight. Fuck off!”

None of the anger is for him.

He can guess, in fact, from Noctis’s words, that the anger is for everyone else in the company who won’t agree with Noctis’s ideas, and -- there aren’t that many of them, are they? Prompto’s certain he’s met all of those people, all of them crammed into this room and holding on white-knuckled to various drinks, and that’s not a lot of people, and the angry words are for those people, they’re not for him.

That does nothing to soothe the panic drumming frantically on his heart, whining wheeze of the breath getting pulled out of his lungs as though caught on thorns, on spikes and on wire, and he claps his hands over his mouth but -- he’s been gasping, he’s already visible in Noctis’s chair and everything, there’s no point in trying to hide because this is Noctis -- and why does he feel like he needs to turn away from the naked bitterness in the snarl etched into that mouth?

He draws in another shocked breath when -- of all the things -- Noctis drops the phone that had been in his hand into the wastebasket next to the door.

“Fuck,” he says, half a question, half in commiseration.

He’s not expecting Noctis to answer, but the words that he does hear -- aren’t really a surprise, not after that phone call. “Ever have one of those days when every second you feel like shouting that?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says as he levers himself out of the chair.

“So maybe you know a little of how I feel.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, and he gets himself perched on the desk just in time for Noctis to take the chair and groan, long and pained and hoarse sound.

He wants so badly to reach out to Noctis and -- he can feel the instinct in his nerves, quelling. Not to stop reaching out exactly. More to wait.

And Noctis, uncurling from where he’d hunched over in his chair, grabs one of the items on his otherwise sparse desk -- a cup full of pencils? -- and he hurls the whole scattering clattering mess at the nearest wall. 

One pencil lands next to Prompto’s feet and he stoops, turns it over in his hands. Offers it back to Noctis, balanced on his pointer fingers. “Maybe you wish that was something you could stab someone with.”

“It’s a pencil,” he hears Noctis mutter, blank bleak expressionless words. “With a point. People have died on those things.”

“Like people have been killed on them.”

“I wish I could. Kill people I mean.”

Noctis, turned away from the windows as he currently is, fades almost neatly and completely into the dark leather and mesh of the chair. Knuckles far too tense where he’s gripping the chair’s arms. Lips still curled into a snarl.

So Prompto keeps his distance, the irrational fear trickling away now that Noctis has lapsed into silence. Fear scattering into little bits, the little bits coming back together in a different configuration, into a different emotion: sympathy for Noctis, certainly, not to coddle him but to try and help him get past whatever’s set him off this time, get him out of this destructive mood.

But: breath, breath, and Noctis’s hand is moving in his direction. Palm up. Fingers pressed together. Still, and waiting, between them.

Prompto touches that cold palm with his own fingertips -- only a touch, only a chaste and simple contact, and a small question to go with the touch. “Noct?”

“Did I scare you?”

“A little,” he says, because he’s honest. “I was also disoriented. Cold here. Your couch is weird.”

“You say that every time.”

He watches the stern lines in Noctis’s forehead unkink. Watches the angles in his face soften as he lets out a long and gusty sigh. “And then I come in shouting at my phone.”

“I’m sure they deserved it,” Prompto offers.

“They all deserve to be gutted, and I mean that the old-fashioned way,” is Noctis’s response. “Let them die in their own shit and their own blood.”

Prompto says nothing, and doesn’t move away.

“Sorry. Again.” Blink. Weary coax of a small sliver-smile, when Noctis looks at him again. “I really need to stop scaring you.”

“Means you can’t be doing this,” and Prompto waves at the office with his free hand. “Who would you be if you weren’t doing this?”

“I have no fucking idea,” and it’s the pure honesty in that response that makes Prompto move away from the desk. That makes him land in Noctis’s lap, half-straddling him. Hands entwined between them. 

And, after all, when they’re this close, Prompto can recognize Noctis. Tic in his jawline and stray strands of silver in the patched scruff of his beard. The sharpness of his gaze; the old crook in the bridge of his nose. 

Mouth: that Prompto touches with his own knuckles, and his reward for that is a soundless kiss and warm breath gusting over his skin.

“Why are you so warm?” he asks.

“Why are you cold, in all these layers?” 

He doesn’t have an answer for that other than the need to get closer, the need to get warm, and if it makes Noctis feel better -- Prompto can make that sacrifice, easy.

The chair creaks a few times and at the end of it he’s wrapped around Noctis, and Noctis is trailing kisses down his throat, and Prompto sighs and presses hungrily closer.

Sigh, in the middle of those kisses, and he pulls away to catch the way Noctis shakes his head. 

“I hate to ask you,” he hears Noctis say. “You’re tired, too. You’ve got your own shit, too.”

“And when did you decide I’m not good enough for the question,” he asks, plain and simple words because he doesn’t have the thought for -- banter. For jabbing at Noctis. 

“I don’t know,” Noctis says after a long instant of silence. And: “Sorry. I keep fucking up.”

“Yeah, so, how do we deal?”

This time he leans in and rests his forehead against Noctis’s.

“Stay there,” Noctis says, after a moment.

He watches Noctis get to his feet and -- walk to the doorway, and turn off the lights, and the climate control, he thinks, because the room starts to get warmer, slowly, slowly, enough that his toes finally start to uncramp, and his shoulders start to fall out of hunched tension.

And he follows Noct to the full-length windows, the entire back wall of the room. Blink-blink-blink of images and slogans in the night, colors and pictures blurring out to his eyes because he can’t pay attention.

He can’t pay attention because Noctis is whispering to him: “I want you, can we?”

“How can that help?” he makes himself ask.

Smile, then, something small, but it looks almost like something real. “When I’m with you I can almost forget.”

Oh.

So he steps away from Noctis. Turns around. The light pollution clouds the windows enough that he can just about make out the interest in the reflection of Noctis, close by. 

He strips off his own clothes, measured pace, and he still shivers at the end of the process and the entire presence of Noctis at his back is the only source of warmth he knows.

The light pollution and the neon glare all around might be enough to -- obscure him where he’s halfway to leaning against the windows, where he’s in nothing but his skin and the strong grasp of Noctis’s arms around his waist. 

“Prompto.” Noctis sounds -- actually sounds reverent. “Didn’t know you had this in you, or I would have -- ”

“Offered? Don’t know if I’d have said yes then.”

“True.” Rasp of a chuckle. “But this way I can’t see you.”

“I like seeing you too,” he says. And: “You can watch me. In the windows.”

“If I can make you out,” and Noctis laughs, a little, and now he’s undressing, the things he’s wearing rustling away to fall to the carpet, and Prompto can feel the stir of him, hardening length against -- the crease between his ass and his thigh. The cleft of him, concealing the pulse of his rim, the muscles surrounding that most intimate part of him.

“That, that’s a start,” Prompto offers, pleased his voice is steady when his throat is clenching with anticipation. 

“Good start,” Noctis half-asks, before --

Prompto hears a thump, two, and then Noctis’s thumbs are digging gently into his ass. Are pressing warm circles into his skin, setting off a low and steady burn that makes him grin and brace himself, hands flat against the windows and head bowing down, waiting, shivering not because he’s cold but because the ghostly touch of Noctis’s fingertips is far too warm.

Kisses, soft damp, that Noctis is dotting all over the backs of his thighs. Down, briefly, tongue-flick at the back of one knee and then another. 

“I like your feet,” he hears Noctis say, and he feels a surge of warmth in his nerves, feels the warmth flare in his cheeks, at his temples, probably his ears too. 

“Of all the places,” he starts.

“Yeah, and that’s because -- you dance,” and Prompto nearly lets out a small shriek of protest when he feels Noctis’s hands in a snug ring around his left ankle. Again the maddening brush of fingertips, stroke, stroke, as if to follow the lines of muscle up his shins. “You work with your feet. Your legs.”

“It’s the tights, isn’t it.”

“Sometimes,” and is Noctis chuckling? There’s not much time to parse him out because oh, oh gods, Noctis is licking up the back of his left leg, wet firm strokes of his tongue, and Prompto feels the shivers rip viciously through him. Reason, shredding away.

Noctis repeats his movements up his right leg, and Prompto grits his teeth against the tidal rush of blood in his veins, to parts south and to the places that Noctis has been touching, so he’s even more sensitive, so he’s even more open to renewed assaults, his senses overloading already.

He’s sobbing by the time Noctis smacks his left ass-cheek -- too light, too much of a tease -- and then his right. By the time Noctis’s tongue presses lightly against his hole, fluttering movement -- not even penetration -- and he grits his teeth against the instinctive urge to beg for it, to wail Noctis’s name -- 

Noctis knows how to open him up: how to pry into all the secret places of him, how to light his nerves up and break him down into nothing more than his need and his hormones and his half-yearning cries, and gods, Noctis is fucking taking his time today, and Prompto’s half-tempted to jerk off, just chasing the relief, just chasing the break in the tension --

“No,” he hears Noctis say -- so when did he start begging? -- he swallows and tries to speak again, and no words come out this time -- but that’s because Noctis is three fingers deep into him, all the way in, and Prompto’s lighting up as he’s touched so well, so deeply, as Noctis presses into his prostate and the world flares out into far-too-bright blank white.

“Prompto,” he hears, like a needy sob from behind him and he pushes eagerly into Noctis’s hips, pushes himself back onto Noctis’s hard hot huge cock, and the next thing he knows he’s bent into a perfect right angle and Noctis is fucking him, hard -- hands in a bruising grip at Prompto’s waist, holding him in place, and Prompto’s stomach muscles burn with the delicious strain and that seems to wind his nerves higher and tighter and -- 

Fuck, fuck, is Noctis pushing fingers in alongside his cock -- Prompto keens, split wide open on him and helpless and desperate and shouting, tears running freely from his eyes because he’s torn right between coming right there and then and _not_ coming, please no, he wants this, he needs this, needs to hold out until Noctis comes -- 

“Move,” he hears Noctis laugh, low and dark.

One of Noctis’s hands has moved to his right shoulder: is torquing and twisting him back upright, and that same hand catches him by the jaw and turns him towards Noctis’s mouth, towards the ravening kiss.

The other hand is catching at his left hip -- urging him to raise that leg and he instinctively rises halfway up onto the toes of his right foot, crooks his left leg around Noctis’s leg -- he’s vaguely aware he’s in arabesque position and still Noctis is crooning obscene sweet encouragement against his mouth: “You look so good taking me like this, you look so good against the window, let me hear you, tell me what you need -- ”

“Fuck, Noctis, please, come on come on come in me please -- ”

“Yeah I wanna see you take it,” graveled, the words splintering into rough grunts as Noctis speeds up -- impossibly -- crowds Prompto right against the window, and the smooth surface is no relief against his feverish skin -- he’s so close, he’s so close he’s trying to beg and Noctis is biting at his ear and -- 

Prompto smears his release over his own skin as he’s pushed brutally into the glass and Noctis finally comes, finally fills him up, with a strangled shout, far too close.

And after, he wakes up back on the couch and wrapped in his own clothes, clumsily cleaned up, and Noctis is sleeping next to him, and Prompto yanks him in closer and breathes in sex and sweat and the soft sounds of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


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